


the windswept shores of a time before

by truce



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Break Up, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Heavy Angst, Heavy dialogue, M/M, Regret, Sad, Sad Ian, Sad Mickey, Unresolved Emotional Tension, a lot of kissing and crying basically, everyones sad, mickey's in prison so im tagging that as painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truce/pseuds/truce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He wants to lie down with Mickey on his old sheets forever and talk about the city, the streets, and the whole entire universe – including the stars that form constellations in Mickey’s eyes. But the universe fucking hates them, for reasons he doesn’t understand; and the universe keeps sending out its best stars to keep them apart.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(2 years after their break-up, ian finally comes back for mickey)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the windswept shores of a time before

**Author's Note:**

> the sole reason for the creation of this fic was that, after weeks of searching for a plot relatively similar to this one, i didn't find any; so this was born. i needed something painful, something to accompany the emotional beatings shameless has left me with. 
> 
> so, enjoy. i guess.
> 
> fic is loosely based off "when will i see you again" by lord huron.

Ian hates the silence. 

It could be a matter of familiarity; or, in this case, the lack of it. Constant noise was just something he grew accustomed to, something that he deems comforting now, considering he grew up in a wild environment filled with younger siblings bumping into every table present and with older siblings as well who spent the later parts of their nights immersed in loud beats and even louder laughter. 

It could also be because of his current job, where he’s a newly stated fireman. His hearing has been limited to fire alarms and shouts of command lately, and there’s never a day wherein he fails to hear the roaring sound of the sirens bouncing off the walls of the station. 

But then again, it could also be because silence never really fared well with him. The last time he encountered quietness quite like this, it wasn’t on good terms. Back then he was stood on his front porch, in front of the house where his family resides, and also in front of the man he loved. 

It was a mess. 

Or, maybe it was just him. He remembers the tears staining his cheeks on that day, the cautious steps he took towards the other man whose heart was visibly breaking right before him, the emptiness that filled his mouth as he grew speechless over time. 

He recalls the way the other man’s strength slowly turned to fragility as he took Ian’s words like beatings. With each claim of uselessness came another imagined punch to the jaw, and scars forming in places way beneath his skin. 

Ian remembers how he caused all that pain, just by the power of his words. And so, he also remembers the silence that came after it, the deafening sound of absolutely nothing, and how the silence was enough to tear both of them apart.

So, Ian says it again, just because there’s nothing more true than this.

Ian hates the silence, because it reminds him too much of Mickey.

 

***

Pathetic, is what Ian thinks he is. _Absolutely fucking pathetic_.  
He’s been standing on the front porch of his house for about five whole minutes, just staring up at the door with his bags bunching up beside his feet. 

For reasons he can’t seem to understand, the same painful memories fill his head whenever he takes a step beyond the makeshift fence that surrounds the Gallagher house. And, they don’t just visit his thoughts once, no, the memories beat inside his head and play themselves over and over until Ian feels like he’s falling, his head dazed by the overwhelming series of events that run back to him. 

Perhaps that’s the reason why he rarely goes back home to his family anymore and why his chooses to spend his days in Caleb’s apartment, because he can’t handle the pain that welcomes him whenever he manages to gather up the courage to go back home. 

He didn’t even plan this visit. His clothes were tossed in his bags haphazardly and he’s certain that he forgot a couple things or two. He doesn’t even have a reason to stop by, with no important events lined up in the next few days and no family emergency that needed to be addressed. 

It was almost by instinct that he felt the dying need to stop by his old home, as if an unknown force inside of him was pulling him to come back. 

So, he left right after his shift at the fire station ended, with bags full of carelessly packed clothes and a nagging sensation tearing at his thoughts. 

He could see the yellow lights through the window next to the front door, and he could feel the chilly air nip at his skin as the sky darkened deeper into the night. 

He’s not even sure if it was a good day to visit, considering the countless issues his family encountered often messed up their schedules. And, he’s pretty sure Fiona and the rest of his family stopped expecting him to stop by after his daily visits turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, until his inconsistency became consistent. 

He took a deep breath before he built up his composure and picked up his bags. 

As he walks towards the front door, he tries to blink away the reminder of how he broke Mickey’s heart on the very same ground two years ago. 

***

The looks on all his siblings’ faces were ones of mixed expressions. 

There were traces of shock and confusion etched onto each and every one of their features as they all turned away from their places on the table to turn their heads towards the front door. 

Liam was the first one to run towards him, of course, because Liam had always been the good one among them all. Debbie followed shortly after, with a smile and arms spread wide open. Carl then took his turn, giving Ian a half hug, which turned out to be more of a shoulder bump, but Ian’s still pretty pleased by the welcoming gesture. 

Fiona stands at a fair distance, arms crossed at her chest as he looks at Ian with tired eyes and a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Ian hasn’t seen her in six months, hasn’t seen her properly in a year and a half, and he notices how exhausted she looks, and how her hair’s quite the mess and yet she manages to pull it together. As she always does. 

When all of his younger siblings finally untangled themselves from him, they all started going back to their places at the dining table, and the idle chatter filled the house once again.

“You staying?” Fiona asks, and it’s the first set of words he hears since he stepped into the house. 

Ian lifts his bags up and presses his lips together. “Couple days maybe.”

Fiona’s small smile spreads wider as she saunters towards Ian and pulls him into a tight embrace. Ian rests his chin on her shoulder, and he immediately feels the rush of comfort and familiarity spread through him. For the first time in a long time, he feels relaxed, and he wonders how he ever survived so long without feeling this. “Missed you guys.”

Fiona pulls back and grins. “You don’t know how many times Carl has tried askin’ for your room.”

“Did you give it to him?” 

Ian follows Fiona to the kitchen as she picks up a plate from the rack and gives it a quick wipe, then hands it over to Ian. “No. You came back, didn’t you?”

***

“Anything happen while I was gone?” 

Ian starts the conversation once he takes a seat at the table. It feels strange somehow – sitting down for a meal at his old home again, after a proper year of completely avoiding any chance of him having a sit-down in here. 

“I’m graduating,” Debbie replies. “In three months.”

“Already?” Ian smiles. “Congrats!”

“Well, I haven’t graduated _yet_.”

“As long as you don’t screw it up like I did, you’re good,” Ian advices. “Congrats though, Debs, so proud of you.”

Debbie presses her lips together into a wide smile, obviously thrilled by the appreciation received from her older brother. 

“You know Debbie’s vice president?” Fiona adds in. “Of the student council.”

“Really?” Ian raises an eyebrow at his younger sister, who nods excitedly in response.

“I plan to use my power to empower all the single teenage moms out there and help them realize that you could raise a child and raise your grades up at the same time.”

“Was that your winning campaign speech?”

“Well, no, but it’s the mission I’ve been living by.” Debbie continues to go on. “So far it’s been working, think I made a couple teachers tear up.”

“Ah, the best kind.” Ian laughs. “I remember when I made my first teacher cry.”

“Oh shit, when?” Debbie asks. 

“Third grade, Ms. Anders, cried when I stood in front of her on the first day, she thought I looked exactly like her dad.”

“Unintentional, doesn’t count.”

“But if it weren’t for me looking too much like her dad, she would’ve have burst into tears for half an hour while making me write ‘I do not look like your dad’ on the board now, would she?”

“Made a couple teachers cry, too,” Carl boasts and Fiona shakes her head. 

Fiona lets out a small laugh. “You make every teacher cry, Carl.”

“He’s a natural at it,” Ian remarks. “Unfair.”

“Not my fault middle-aged women are allergic to innovation.” Carl shrugs. “They can’t handle the future.”

“Or maybe they just can’t handle you,” Fiona says and everyone else laughs. 

It’s amazing, really, how happy Ian feels at the moment, as if all his problems have been cancelled out by the presence of his siblings. The conversation flows easily between them, with them having a year’s worth of catching up to do and over a hundred stories to share. Ian talks about the lighter parts of his life – his new job and how he’s putting up with it so far, how fitting being a fireman is for all his skills and abilities, and he talks about the pizza place two blocks away from his apartment that he loves so much and how he should take everyone there when he has the chance to (his treat, which he’s pretty proud of).

A moment of silence passes through them after a long conversation about Ian’s life and career, as it seems. The sound of silverware clashing against the plates fills the room for a quick second or two. That is, until. 

“Liam’s getting pretty big,” Carl says while shrugging. “Gonna start going through puberty and shit soon.” 

Carl doesn’t spare a glance up at Ian as he picks up a whole spoon of mashed potatoes from the center plate and drops it into his own. 

No one even knows where this conversation is going, but it’s pretty fucking weird so far. 

“Your point?” Ian flashes him a skeptical glance as the younger boy finally looks up at him with a straight face. 

“I want your room.”

Ian breathily laughs as his head moves in shaking motions. “Nah.”

“But you’re barely home!” Carl visibly deflates, sinking into his chair as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Unfair, man.”

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious.” 

“Plus,” Debbie then adds on. “Liam’s like, seven.”

Carl just scoffs in response. 

When they’ve finally finished dinner and the plates have been cleared out of the table, the kids have all gone their separate ways. Carl’s gone up to throw a right fit of silence in his shared room, while Liam follows behind him. Debbie picks up her baby from her spot on the living room couch and carries her upstairs, leaving Fiona and Ian alone in the kitchen.

The silence lingers for a little while, until Fiona breaks it.

“So, you gonna tell me why you came back?” 

Ian freezes in his place in which he’s washing the dishes. His eyes focus on the bare tiles on the wall as he racks his thoughts for a possible answer to her question, because he knows that Fiona never settles for ‘nothing’.

“Just haven’t visited in a while,” Ian shrugs, trying to avoid giving a more in-depth answer. “Wanted to stop by and say hi.”

Fiona lets out a laugh laced with disbelief, accompanied by a subtle shake of her head. “Just say hi? You’re kidding me.”

“It’s the truth,” Ian insists, but Fiona won’t let down.

“Bullshit, Ian,” Fiona retorts, which causes them both to stand still, their stature unmoving as they intently watched the other try to speak. “You haven’t had a meal with us in over a year. The last time you stopped by here was to drop off some of your old things. And when was that? Six months ago?”

Ian tightens his grip on the kitchen counter, but he doesn’t speak. Not a single word exits his mouth as he listens to Fiona go on. 

“Don’t lie to me,” she says as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel, her gaze fixed straight at Ian’s face. 

Ian looks vacantly at the floor, his lips quivering slightly as he feels his face heat up – the heat flowing from his temples to his cheeks, all the way down to his lips. He thinks he feels a stinging sensation in his eye, and tiny drops of water have begun to pool at the corners of his eyes. He wants to hold it in, because god knows he hates crying; he hates how it makes him feel helpless, as if all the strength he’s managed to build up over the past two years is slowly crumbling piece by piece, as if he can’t manage to hold himself together. But he can’t control it, because his eyelids have doubled in weight at this point, and his tears have formed clear lines on his face as they roll down his soft skin and let themselves drop to the floor. 

He’s crying, and he doesn’t know why.

“Ian,” Fiona coos, using the softest tone she could possibly muster as she walks towards her brother, arms wide open as she envelops Ian in another warm embrace. 

Ian sobs on her shoulder, letting his tears stain the soft material of Fiona’s shirt. He thinks, _fuck it_ , he’ll cry if he wants to. It’s not like he can easily put an end to the flow of tears rushing down his face anyway; they just keep coming, and Ian can’t do anything about it, so he just lets them fall, lets his sadness overwhelm him and cloud up his features. 

Fiona pulls back a little after a good minute of hushed cries. Ian’s nose has taken on a light shade of red, nearly putting up a fair contrast with the color of his hair, which had just begun to fall onto his face in a mess of strands. 

Ian feels weak; he feels defenseless and frail. 

His chest hollows, and he feels a stunning sense of nothing in the space where he should be feeling a great deal of emotions. With each beat of his heart, a choked sob follows, and with each tear that falls, a painful memory comes behind.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

Fiona says it in her sisterly voice – the tone that usually fills you with comfort and relief, the same tone that gets you to admit things you’d never mention to anyone else. And in this exact moment, Ian thinks it’s working. His mind stays blank, and the thoughts aren’t running around in wild motions anymore. His mouth is dry and his lips remain sealed, with the exception of a couple hiccups that manage to escape his lips. His heart, well, it won’t stop. It’s beating too fast, pounding at the cages of his chest as he tries to contain it, and he wants it to stop. It makes him feel nervous, anxious, and most importantly – scared. For reasons he can’t comprehend, the quick paced beating of his heart terrifies him, because the unsettling feeling resides deep in him, and it’s not an open wound which you could patch up and wrap in bandages, no. This pain extends far deeper than some scratch, and Ian doesn’t know how to deal with it. 

And so when Fiona says, “Something bothering you?”

Ian doesn’t mean to say, “Mickey.”

***

It’s been an hour since Mickey’s name unintentionally slipped past Ian’s lips. 

They’re now seated on Ian’s bed, sitting in the uncomfortable silence once again. Ian’s tossed aside his coat, and lies on his bed in a tank and a pair of boxers, holding onto the belief that maybe shedding all his thicker clothing might give him a bit of air, or some relief to the tightening impression that’s been bothering him.

He figures it’s ineffective. 

“You ready to talk about it?” Fiona asks cautiously, not even sparing a glance at Ian as she says so. 

Ian replies in a monotonous tone. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Maybe the fact that you just mentioned your ex-boyfriend’s name?” Fiona suggests, but Ian remains unresponsive. “Something with that?”

“It just slipped, all right?” Ian grumbles, and then he adjusts himself on the sheets so he’s completely had his back turned to his sister. He fixes his gaze on a chip on the wall in front of him. Any distraction would be good at this point.

“S’gotta be some psychology behind that,” Fiona says. “Some Freud shit or something.”

“Doesn’t take psychology to know that it means nothing.”

Fiona presses her lips together, obviously quite exhausted by the constant back and forth conversation that seems to be leading to multiple dead ends. She watches her brother lie motionlessly on the rumpled sheets, and she pretends not to notice how much Ian is shaking, albeit subtly. 

For a moment, she thinks she should leave. It’s ten o’ clock in the evening and Ian sure doesn’t look very talkative at the moment, considering he’s spent the majority of the night consumed by his own thoughts. Leaving just doesn’t seem like the option she was leaning towards, because in no way is she leaving her brother alone while he’s fragile and disturbed, since this kind of behavior has proven itself to be quite dangerous in the past. 

She knows there’s a deeper reason behind Ian accidentally blurting out Mickey’s name, even if it’s some shallow memory that refuses to leave his head. And she won’t leave until she gets it out of him.

“Did you visit him?” Fiona finally questions, yet both siblings still kept their backs turned. “In prison?”

Ian stills. “No. Why would I?”

Ian vividly remembers the day Mickey went to jail. How could he forget, honestly? It was the day Ian broke up with him, which turned out to be the day of many other things – all which took turns into a negative path. He remembers how Mickey stood before him stunned, before his mistakes caught up with him and chased him down the road. Soon enough, all Ian could hear were the sounds of guns firing and sirens wailing throughout the open area. 

“Did you talk to him recently?”

Ian shakes his head at that. “Not since Svet paid me to.”

“That why you came back?” Fiona offers up a tight-lipped smile, trying to lighten up the mood, even if it’s by the smallest degree. “Wanna see Mickey?”

Ian doesn’t answer; because to be completely honest, he doesn’t have an answer to that.

If there’s one true thing that he’s said tonight, it’s the fact that he doesn’t know why he came back. He has many possible reasons, but no definite one. He just felt the need to come back and revisit the familiarity he left behind all those months ago. Which, of course, seems vague and insufficient. But it’s the truth, and he’s sticking to that. 

“I don’t wanna see him.”

It’s voiced out in a tone as soft as a whisper, almost inaudible if said a tad bit softer. It’s not convincing, is what it is, and Fiona isn’t persuaded. 

“Want me to talk to Svet?” Fiona proposes. “She can help us get in at visiting hours.”

Ian repeats himself, a little louder this time. “I said I don’t want to see him.”

“Ian, Mickey’s gonna want–”

“Jesus, not everything is about fucking Mickey!”

It shuts Fiona up, and puts her in a state of surprise. Ian’s voice bounces off the walls of his small room, causing an aura of discomfort and uneasiness to spread around them. Their walls are thin, which means even the slightest sounds would echo off into the next room. The whole house probably heard his shout of frustration about an ex-lover he can’t seem to get his mind off of. But then again, it’s nothing new.

Ian watches how Fiona moves – slowly and carefully, as if trying to distance herself from her brother in aspects that amount to more than one. She avoids making physical contact with Ian as she slowly gets up from her seat on the bed and straightens out her jeans, making sure that her face is hidden from Ian’s view. She walks towards the door in a lagging manner, keeping her feet light as she heads towards the door. 

Before she could walk past the doorframe, Ian’s voice stops her from moving any further. 

“Sorry.”

It’s small and hardly audible, but it’s still an apology – and the sincerity is laced around the five letter word in its purest form. 

Ian didn’t mean to shout, or to ignore the help his sister was trying to offer. He doesn’t quite understand what’s wrong, but he figures it’s Mickey. It’s always Mickey. 

Even just the thought of him is enough to get him heated, to fuel his anger until it turns into a million fits, because Mickey reminds him of all his own mistakes. Mickey reminds him of what could have been the best thing he has ever had, and yet he also reminds Ian of how he fucked it all up, and ruined the one good thing that came his way. 

And he can’t forgive himself for that. Not ever. 

Fiona sighs. “M’sorry, too.” She doesn’t turn around, but her words still flow. “Didn’t mean to press on any sensitive topic.” 

She leans her head on the doorframe and pulls her arms closer to her chest. “Just worried, is all. You know how I’m always so fucking worried about you guys.”

Ian lets out a small laugh. “Oh, I know.”

Fiona just flashes him a reassuring smile as she faces her brother once more. She doesn’t move an inch from her spot though, and she thinks it’s for the best. “You good though? Still doing fine?”

A change in topic is just what they both needed, as the tension has been continuously rising between the siblings. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian nods. “Saved two kids last week. Treehouse caught on fire.” 

Ian smiles as he recalls the memory. “Kids’ parents were so thankful. Loved seeing them happy.”

It’s a good break for Ian – recalling pleasant memories instead of the painful ones that constantly beat at his mind. Lately, it’s been hard to keep his wild thoughts at bay, to control them and keep them under wraps. So, it’s refreshing to have good memories for once.

Fiona grins, and it looks like a proud one from what Ian can decipher. “Really love your job, don’t ya?”

‘Yeah.” Ian turns so that his body is flat on the mattress and his eyes have trained themselves to the ceiling. “Thank god Caleb got me into the whole fireman thing. Who knows where I’d be now if I didn’t?”

Fiona is reminded of the guy Ian’s been seeing for the past two years. She hasn’t heard much about him, hasn’t even met the guy properly, but based on Ian’s story pieces, he seems like a helpful kind of guy. She may not know much but she knows one thing for sure, he’s been setting Ian’s life in place so far, so she really doesn’t want to mess it up for Ian, knowing how rocky Ian’s past has been for the past couple of years.

What Ian needs now is stability – and so far, he’s been getting just that.

“I think I’m finally okay, you know? It feels like everything’s finally falling into place. I can’t explain it. Everything just feels so – so _right_.” And at this point, what does it matter if it was a lie?

Fiona smiles sadly, because although she’s filled with so much joy for the happiness of her brother, she wishes that she knew how it feels – how it feels to finally be satisfied with how things are turning out, how it feels to have everything go your way for once, how it feels to be genuinely happy. “Really happy for you, Ian.”

She glances at the time on her phone and sees it’s a lot closer to midnight than she thought. She takes one last look at Ian, who’s calmly lying on his bed, feeling his own chest rise up and down in time with his breathing. She decides it’s time to head to sleep, since the exhaustion has spread throughout her body like wildfire. With her hand on the door knob, she says, “Need anything else before I go?”

Ian mutters a small ‘no’ and he shuts his eyes at the same time to door clicks shut.

And he _doesn’t_ see Mickey’s name written across the back of his eyelids.

***

When Ian wakes up the next morning, he has 32 message notifications flashed on the screen of his phone. 

He scrolls through them and sees that they’re all from the same person – _Mandy_.

All the messages go by the same gist, the same _you didnt tell me u came back to town you shit!!!_ and _is it safe to come over and punch yuo in the throat_ in different contexts. Ian laughs, then sends out a quick _its fine, everyones at work, come over_ in reply.

To be fair, the last time he’s seen Mandy was a little over a year ago, when Mandy called him in a panicked state, asking him to help her deal with a dead body she’d found herself in a room with. It wasn’t exactly the cleanest of scenes, and there are a thousand more reunions that might have been more pleasant than that, but it worked for them. It allowed them to shed the walls they’ve so carefully built around themselves, and expose their deepest regrets and successes to each other. It brought them closer, is what it did.

He hears the loud banging on the door before he even has the chance to fish out two eggs from the fridge. 

The weight of two heavy arms and a body attached to it catches him off guard as his hand slips away from the door and around Mandy, who was grinning widely in his hold. 

“You didn’t tell me you were stopping by!” Mandy shouted, though Ian was pretty sure it was supposed to be a lot softer than that. 

“Surprise visit, I guess,” Ian excuses as he shuts the door behind them. “Didn’t know I was coming either.”

“Debs told me you came back last night,” Mandy informed him, following him to the kitchen to where Ian started to make his breakfast. “Drove back here so quick. Couldn’t miss the one in a million opportunity to see you, right?”

Ian frowns, although he keeps his face hidden from Mandy’s sight. He didn’t know how huge the effect of his absence was, and how distant he’d been for the past few months. He always paid close to no attention to it, as he deemed it unimportant, but seeing Mandy here – grinning and voicing out how much she missed him – it’s a lot to take in, and he feels a great mix of guilt and regret. 

“Come on.” Ian seasons the eggs in the pan as he speaks, then transfers them onto two separate plates for him and Mandy. He sets the dish down in front of her before he takes his own seat at the table. “I’m back like, every six months.”

“Yeah, for a minute,” Mandy retorts. “You always just come by to pick up shit or drop things off unplanned. I live two hours away.”

Mandy can’t contain a smile as she looks at Ian and surges forward to wrap him up in another embrace. “Missed you.”

“Been that long, huh?” Ian lets out a breath, but the corners of his lips are turned upwards, and Mandy replies. 

“Have so much to tell you,” Mandy says in between taking bites of her omelet. “Can never trust the girls I work with. Fuck, everything you do or say travels around the entire fucking company in just a day.”

“People love a good story.”

“They’d kill for one.” Mandy shakes her head, amazed at how desperate people were to gather up an interesting story – even if it could possibly ruin the lives of the ones involved.

“So, anyway, that’s not important,” Mandy brushes it off. “How’s your life going so far?”

“Uh, good.” It sounds unsure, as if Ian had nothing better to say, or no greater adjective to describe how messy his life is, and yet so right at the same time. Because in all honesty, his life is, well, _good_. It’s nothing brilliant, but it’s decent. And he’s alive, isn’t he?

Mandy responds with an unimpressed expression. “ _Just_ good?” Mandy scoffs. “Ian, I haven’t seen you in a year, and I’m pretty sure some exciting shit went down in your life in that time.”

Ian presses his lips together, trying to figure out where to start. “Hmm.”

He picks up their used plates and proceeds to washing the dishes. Mandy follows suit, leaning against one of the kitchen counters as she crosses her arms and waits. “Well, I’m officially a fireman now. Finished academy training last year, been practicing lately.”

“Yeah?” Mandy smiles. “You enjoying yourself?”

For the first time since their reunion, a genuine smile appears on Ian’s face, which always seems to show whenever he talks about his new career. “So much. It’s really cool, like you get to play around with all those huge hoses and switch on the sirens and drive through the city at night and no one would even mind. And they have this sick training facility at the station, ‘m there almost everyday.”

“You’re a child, Ian.”

Ian just grins. “Best thing is, while I get to play around with all these things, I’m saving lives too, you know?”

Mandy stays silent, and Ian continues on. “It’s like for once in my life I’m not being a bother. I’m not useless, because I’m out there taking calls for someone who needs my help, who needs _me_. Just being there makes me feel like I have a purpose, and it feels so fucking good.”

“So proud of you, you know that?” Mandy admits, moving closer so that she’s standing next to Ian. She takes the dishtowel and starts wiping away at the dishes as Ian cleans up. “You’re doing something you really love. Not everyone gets to do that.”

There’s a trace of sadness edging on Mandy’s words, but Ian decides not to push on it, feeling that the sensitivity of the topic might be too much for Mandy to mention. He’ll wait for her to open up to him on her own accord; he wouldn’t want her to admit something she isn’t prepared to. 

“And, uh,” Mandy approaches a new topic, looking towards Ian with a knowing glance. “Speaking of doing, how’s your new boyfriend? What’s his name again?”

“Caleb,” Ian fills in.

“Ah, right,” Mandy says. “Never met him. You should invite me over to your new apartment soon. I’ve never been.”

“No one else has ever been to my apartment,” Ian states. “Not even Fiona.”

“Got some secret in there?” Mandy suggests, but elbows Ian playfully anyway. “Some shit I should be aware of?”

“Nah.” Ian suppresses a laugh. “Caleb just doesn’t like having many visitors over. S’got a ton of sculptures in every corner, probably afraid people might mistake them as scrap and toss them out.”

“Seems like a welcoming guy.” Mandy’s words are filled to the brim with sarcasm, and it’s evident that she doesn’t quite like the descriptions fed to her so far. But she doesn’t vocally express it, instead, she finds something else to busy herself with, like reading the labels off a pancake mix box she found stashed in the corner. 

“He’s nicer once you get to know him,” Ian defends. “Just a bit restrained ‘cause of his family. But he’s, uh, pretty sick, I guess.”

“I guess?” Mandy pries, raising a brow at Ian. “Is it just me or do you sound unsure?”

Ian shrugs, but he doesn’t say anything more. That action in itself tells so much about Ian’s confusing situation, and how everything in his life – and all the decisions that fall under it – seem to be caught in between. 

A moment of long silence is shared between them, with Mandy sitting still on the kitchen counter and Ian finishing up a few of the other dishes. The atmosphere between them changes, as if it’s taken on a more tense form. He guesses his senses were right in feeling the switch in the mood, because he was so unprepared to hear Mandy’s next statement.

“Went to see Mickey last night. ”

Ian doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch when the sound of Mandy jumping off the counter fills the room. 

“Was on my way back here and decided to visit him,” Mandy mutters. “He doesn’t get much visitors.”

Ian composes himself, or at least he tries to. His legs are shaking, and he can fall any minute if he gives in, but he tries his best to keep himself up as he turns to face Mandy with the most impassive expression he could muster. “What d’you talk about?”

“The usual,” Mandy softly utters. “Told him about my job, told him how Iggy managed to get himself arrested in New Jersey for the third fucking time.” Mandy laughs and Ian does to, but all laughter dies down after Mandy says her next few words. 

“Told him about you.”

And Ian freezes. His eyes widen, but they’re not blinking. For a moment, Mandy panics, thinks that Ian’s truly gotten himself in a serious fix, but when she sees Ian’s chest rise up in a breath, she calms down and waits for any hint of movement, any reaction of some sort. 

“Yeah?” Is all Ian could say.

Mandy approaches her next few lines with extreme caution, like she’s finding her way around broken glass, where the shards are all Ian, and the fragility of the situation shows in Ian’s lack of words and speechlessness.

“Yeah,” Mandy confirms. “Said you were back in town. And guess what? He smiled. Fucking smiled. He’s never smiled at me in all my past visits.”

Ian truly doesn’t know how to respond to that. A younger Ian would’ve burst into tears of joy, thanking the heavens that the idea of him alone made Mickey Milkovich smile. A younger Ian would’ve rushed to the prison, disregarding visiting hours, and blurted out how much he loved Mickey through the confines of the glass divider. A younger Ian would have stayed up all night, thinking about how great an effect he had on Mickey, who he used to see as unbreakable.

But then again, a younger Ian wouldn’t have broken Mickey’s heart.

And he wasn’t young anymore.

“Told me to tell you that he misses you.”

Ian doesn’t mean to cry, he _doesn’t_ , but he can’t help but let a hot tear fall from where his eyes have been stinging, and where his eyelids have been dragged down by the weight of his overwhelming emotions. Is he crying because his past is finally catching up to him? Is he crying because Mickey misses him, and there’s an astounding possibility that he might be missing Mickey, too? Or, is he crying because despite all the things he’s done, Mickey still picked his broken pieces up and kept himself together, and still held on to the love that only Ian could provide for him?

He needs an answer, any answer, because at the moment, anything would be better than nothing.

“He still loves you, you know?”

Ian’s back presses up against the cold kitchen counter, the surface digging into his hips with each backwards motion he takes. His hands grip onto the counter as well, with his hands holding tighter and tighter as more tears start to form in his eyes. 

Mandy sees Ian’s knuckles turn a shade paler as he tightens his hold, but she doesn’t say anything about it. 

Ian’s bottom lip quivers, but no sound escapes his lips. He stays silent, with the exception of a couple sniffles. “Why are you telling me this?”

He questions the situation, because why wouldn’t he? Mandy has spent the most part of their time together caring about Ian’s wellbeing a little more than her own. And she knows, _everyone_ knows that the topic of Mickey was not one that was easily settled upon. It stirs up a hurricane of emotions inside Ian that makes him lose full control of himself, and Mandy should know that out of all people.

But Mandy speaks on, disregarding everything that Ian has just said. “He wants to see you again, if you want to.”

“Stop.”

“You don’t understand how happy I was, Ian,” Mandy muses. “When he finally smiled at me–”

“Stop it, Mandy.” Ian’s voice raises a pitch higher, trying to get Mandy out of her babbling marathon. 

“–and then I realized he only smiled at me because I brought you into the conversation,” Mandy rattles on, going off into tones that sounded similar to those of desperation. “You make him happy, so, so, so happ–”

“I said stop!” Ian’s resounding shout cuts Mandy off, and he realizes that they’re both sobbing. Both dare not make a move towards each other, afraid that a single step might trigger the anger and bitter guilt they both feel. 

The next few minutes pass, and tears pool at the floor that was once smooth. Ian watches his own sadness form oceans on the tiled surface, and thinks that he’d like to take a swim in it sometime, if he were small enough. And suddenly, he thinks he is. He feels miniscule in this great, big world – the world that has so little to offer; and what it actually has to offer, goes straight to the ones that store luck in their palms. 

The thing is, he’s not one of the lucky ones. 

In fact, he was born far from being one. He’s the man at the back of the line, waiting for luck to come passing in small amounts, hoping he could last another day with what little portions he has left. 

And it’s _shit_. 

“You and Mickey,” Mandy says, with a voice smaller than that of a child’s. “You’re all I have.”

Ian listens, but his heavy breaths have taken over his senses, and right now he just feels numb.

“My other brothers have gone and fucked about to god knows where, girls at work couldn’t give a shit about you unless you had some fucking scandal to feed them,” Mandy lets out an incredulous laugh, almost as if she couldn’t believe where she was going with this. “Never had a mom. And you know my dad – can’t stay out of prison for more than two minutes and when he does, he goes fucking ape and pulls us all down with him.”

Mandy shrugs, like she’s unfazed by the story of her own life, as if her pains and troubles were distant memories from now on, ones that she couldn’t change even if she wanted to. “Mickey was the only one who really gave a shit about me in my family. Took care of me when Terry was out of prison and went on all his crazy violent rampages. He’d take the beatings for me, and he’d keep me in his room until my dad left in fits. He was eight.”

Ian swallows hard. His tears have stopped flowing, but that didn’t put the heavy weight in his throat to a halt. With each breath he took, he felt a stone fill up his already beaten chest. 

“He did that for me because he cared for me,” Mandy smiles sadly, remembering all the times where she had to endure the pain of seeing her brother bruised black and blue after another round of beatings from their father, usually for something Mandy did. Mickey never let her get hurt, and it may just be out of brotherly instinct, but Mandy always thought of it as much more than that. Mandy liked to think that Mickey would never let anyone hurt those he cared for, those he _loved_ , and he proved it a hundred times. Mandy wipes at her eyes with balled up fists, ridding herself of any possible remains of tears. “Look, my point is, he never cared for anyone else other than me. And then you came along.”

Mandy actually laughs now, with her red puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “You fucked him up in the best way possible.”

Ian keeps his head down the whole time, his fingers subconsciously tracing patters on the floor, taking in every word that Mandy’s saying, but not quite sure as to how he should process it. 

“Just saying that Mickey’s pretty fucking reckless, won’t take shit and gets things done,” Mandy says. “The house was never his, he doesn’t have an inheritance of some sort, and he sure as hell hasn’t got a lot. He didn’t have anything to lose.”

Ian looks up at Mandy now and he catches her eye. They stare at each other for a little while before Mandy adds on, “Until he found you.”

Mandy gets up from where she sank to the floor and brushes off the back of her jeans. “Then he lost you. And then I lost him. Please don’t make me lose you too.”

“Are you saying I should get back together with him?” Ian raises a brow at her, questioning her intentions. “Is that what you want?”

“I never said that, Ian,” Mandy defends herself; obviously quite bothered that Ian didn’t get her point.

“Then what do you want?” Ian sighs deeply. “Because I’m fucking tired of guessing.”

“I’m saying that you shouldn’t let what happened between you and Mickey drive you apart from the rest of us,” Mandy exasperatedly admits. “You never come home anymore and don’t fucking lie to me, Ian, because you and I both know it’s because of Mickey.”

Ian doesn’t want to admit that she’s true, and that all her other assumptions have gone in one way – and they’re all headed straight to Ian’s deepest fears. “Why’d you go off then, huh? About Mickey’s past? About him caring for me?”

“Because!” Mandy tugs at her hair in frustration, the blond strands falling loosely upon her fingertips. Mandy shuts her eyes tightly, like she’s trying to contain herself. “You and Mickey are all I have left – you’re the only two guys who have ever bothered to give a shit about me, let alone care for me – and both of you have been slowly slipping away from me because of each other. And I’m sorry if I’m gonna resort to desperation here but the guy just wants five fucking minutes to speak to you.”

Mandy breathes for a moment, because if she doesn’t, she’s afraid she might just break down.

“Do what you want, Ian, I’m not gonna force you into doing anything you don’t want to do. But he’s waiting on nothing at this point. By the time he gets out of jail, he won’t have anything or anyone. And the reason I told you his story was because I’m done letting him take the beatings for the shit other people have done. I’m tired of him always getting shit he doesn’t deserve.”

Ian puts his hands into his pockets, because he’s afraid that if he lets them remain at his sides, the trembling might just get worse. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for that. Those things were completely out of your control.”

“And I don’t,” Mandy mumbles, letting out a deep sigh afterwards. “I just wish I hadn’t been so fucking selfish the whole time. But you know what? I’m gonna be selfish for one more time. Mickey cares for you, Ian, much more than I’ve ever seen him care for someone. Make things right. If you can’t do it for yourself, at least do it for me.”

Mandy sits down, feeling her knees weaken at the end of her statement. “He’s the only brother I have left, and it just sucks how I can’t do anything about his situation. He’s miserable, fuck, everyone’s fucking miserable, I know, but I can’t let that happen to you too. You’re distancing yourself from this place because you’re afraid, right?

Ian can only nod. 

“What are you so afraid of here?”

Ian wants to say so many things. He wants to say that he’s afraid of coming back home and never wanting to go back to where he spent the last two years of his life; he’s afraid to say that if he spends too much time wallowing in his past, he might end up the same way he was before; and most especially, he’s terrified. He’s terrified of coming back here and encountering Mickey again, because the deepest part of him knows that he still loves Mickey with everything he’s got, but he’s terrified of losing everything else. 

He knows that once he gives in and lets himself back into Mickey’s arms, everything else he ever had would be at risk. Mickey’s not exactly the man with the best reputation, and he’s gotten himself thrown in and out of jail multiple times, so life won’t just fall into place for him at the snap of his fingers. It’s much tougher than that, and Ian’s just not sure how to deal with that. 

“Everything,” Ian confesses. “I’m afraid of fucking everything. I still love Mickey, never stopped loving him, and _god_ , do I want to run to the fucking prison and tell him that.”

“What’s stopping you?” Mandy asks, with a certain hint of caution laced around her words. 

“Everything is!” Ian exasperatedly shouts. “My life’s finally falling into place. I have a great job, an apartment, _Jesus_ , I’m supposed to have a boyfriend.” Ian lets out a hollow laugh, with no tinge of humor present in it whatsoever. “My whole life is set over there.”

Ian runs a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping onto the thin strands, hoping to release some of his frustrations onto a little part of him. “But you try living for two fucking years thinking you’re finally happy, only to remember that you never will be because a part of you’s still missing, and that part is in fucking jail for fifteen years!”

“I love him,” Ian blurts out once more, with much more sincerity than he ever thought was possible. “But I don’t know if I can wait for him anymore.”

Mandy huffs quietly, and lets a couple breaths pass through her lips as she thinks of what to say next. “Just talk to him, yeah? Do whatever it is that you came here for, then figure it out from there.”

Ian smiles sadly. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Oh, I know it’s not.” Mandy shrugs. “But you waited two years for this, Ian. I’d think waiting hurts more than the actual moment.”

Ian agrees. Each day that passed since his breakup with Mickey has been a constant reminder of his mistake, and each waking moment has been agonizing on his part. If he doesn’t do it now, he might not ever, and if he never does, it’ll eat away at his thoughts for as long as he lives. 

Mandy stands up from her seat on the chair and gives Ian a full embrace, arms draping loosely over the back of Ian’s neck. “Just want you to be happy, Ian,” she mutters onto Ian’s sleeve. “And you know you can’t be happy if you keep running away from your problems.”

Ian is speechless, too overcome with emotions to get a single word out. He knows Mandy is right, and that’s what eating at him. He’s sure now that the reason he came back was so he could get over Mickey, because he knows very well that he was far from getting over him, as much as he tries to deny it. 

It’s true. Ian has been running away from his problems, and that’s only because he doesn’t know any other way as to how he should deal with it, because he’s never been cornered quite like this before. He thought that moving on to things he deemed greater – getting a new job that kept him busy, finding a new boyfriend that he thought would fill the gaps that formed after he lost Mickey, moving to a whole different part of town in an apartment that looked so different from his old house – would rid him of the awful memories that stuck with him. 

But instead, it made it worse.

Because truth be told, he still loves Mickey, and that’s why he came back.

“Have to get to work,” Mandy announces, pulling on the coat she tossed off when she arrived. “Two hour drive back, my boss will have my fucking ass if I don’t attend to my clients.”

“Get going then,” Ian laughs for the first time since their conversation. 

“Right,” Mandy smiles sheepishly, tugging her coat closer to her chest as she walks towards the door. “Bye.”

She gives Ian one last wave before she makes her way out. Before she could leave for good, Ian catches up to her and gives her a huge hug, one more grateful than anything. “Thanks Mands. For everything.”

“Just want what’s best for you.”

“I know.” 

Ian watches Mandy leave in a hurry. He could hear the sound of her heels clacking against the pavement, and the sound dissipates when she finally steps into her car. The engine roars once and Mandy steers away, leaving Ian alone on his porch.

***

The smoke tails off the end of Ian’s cigarette in thin wisps. 

It’s chilly out, which means that Ian’s shivering more than usual, even with the three layers of clothing he’s put on. He pulls his jacket closer to his chest, burrowing his free hand into his pocket as he does.

It’s been three days since Mandy’s visit and Ian’s had quite a lot to think about.

Mandy’s texts were misleading. They were the most random of sorts, ranging from messages like _Oranges are just the fruit versions of u_ to angry rants about her co-workers. Their conversations have been going back and forth about the little things that have been going on in their lives, like old times. But none of them were ever about the talk they had three days ago. 

It’s like they both subconsciously agreed to avoid the topic altogether, and Ian isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one. 

It’s an hour to midnight and Ian’s sitting down on the front steps of his house, finishing off a cigarette that feels like it’s been burning forever. His thoughts have taken over, running through his head in marathon-like paces, never stopping until he wills them to. He tries to distract himself – he counts the number of cars that drive past his street and he also places names on the multiple faces that pass him by – but they don’t work. There’s too much to think about and Ian knows that he can’t avoid them forever.

His time is limited. He asked for a weeklong leave of absence at work, and he can’t afford to bargain for another one. He has two days left here before he has to depart again and go back to the life he’s grown so accustomed to, leaving behind all chances of him ever making things right here. 

A street lamp flickers across the street for him. It flickers once, twice, thrice, and then the light dies at once. It’s a whole lot dimmer than before now, but Ian doesn’t budge, he stays planted on his position on the porch, letting his mind wander into the deeper chambers of his memories. 

He thinks about what Mandy said, about how Mickey had cared so much for her that he resented the thought of Mandy ever getting hurt, that he took the beatings for whatever Mandy did. He thinks about how she said that she’s tired of seeing Mickey get shit he doesn’t deserve.

He hates to think that maybe that line was directed at him, but he guesses it’s true anyway, no matter how much he tries to deny it.

He thinks of the day he broke things off with Mickey, and how he was unaware of his own emotions at that time. He recalls the conversation he had with his mom beforehand and the mess he’d been caught up in when he decided to go along with Monica to wherever she wanted to take him. Monica fed him ideas that never existed in his head, leading him to believe that no one truly understood him, and that he should surround himself with people like him – people that knew how it felt. He was numb back then, too held back by shock and denial to be able to withdraw from the mistakes he was about to make. 

And so he pushed away everyone that mattered because he figured that they wouldn’t understand him, they won’t accept him for who he is. His head was loaded with all these false accusations and assumptions that it consumed him, made him far more distant than he ever was. 

He pushed Mickey away because Mickey did everything in his power to try and handle Ian, to care for him despite the difficulty of the situation. Mickey didn’t understand anything he was facing, but he tried so hard to grasp even the slightest idea of what he was up against. And maybe, maybe that was just too much for Ian. 

Ian didn’t like feeling like a difficult case – some issue that caused chaos among the people he loved. He conditioned himself to think that he should distance himself from people that didn’t understand, without knowing that he, too, did not understand himself. 

But that was two years ago. 

He’s better now, he likes to think. He’s taking his meds on the regular, making sure to properly adjust his intake to what he needs. He’s got a stable job in a highly respectable career, so there’s no more need to go scouting for jobs in the most inadequate places. He earns a decent salary, enough to pay for monthly groceries and electric bills and weekly night outs with some friends from work. _And_ , and. He’s got a boyfriend, one that keeps a good reputation with the city and provides a roof over his head. 

His life should be set. He’s got everything he needs to start living comfortably, to immerse himself in a stable environment that shelters him and keeps him free from harm. But for reasons he can’t explain, even if everything in his life is pointed in the direction of a good life, it’s all just so wrong.

He has everything he needs, except.

Well, except Mickey.

***

Ian decides to visit Mickey tomorrow morning.

He lies awake in bed, tossing up an old baseball until it hits the ceiling and falls back down into his palms. His decision was one that was well thought out, and it took a couple of debates with himself before he even resulted to giving in to what he truly wants. He wants to see Mickey, wants to make things right. He’s not exactly sure what “right” is at the moment but he’ll figure it out once he sees Mickey. 

Now, he could be making a mistake, but the whole reason for his visit was to set things into place, to either acquaint himself with his past or to avoid it once more and live with the heavy burden in his chest for the rest of his life. He decides to go with the former, and he hopes he’s making the right choice.

It’s now and hour after midnight and Ian can’t sleep. He’s too troubled by the anticipation of the next day that his eyelids won’t drop for a single second. 

The wind’s a bit strong out, and the cold temperature has caused frost to form on his beaten-down window. A branch off the nearest tree taps against his window repeatedly, the wind swaying it to brush against the glass. And then he hears it.

 _Thump_.

At first he thinks it’s the branch again, but the tree has started swaying in the other direction now, so it’s highly unlikely. Ian shuts his eyes, and he disregards the sound he just heard, thinks it’s just some bird or something.

But then he hears it again, twice this time. The sound is light and quick, and it resembles a tapping sound, and he hears it coming from the window. Ian gets out of bed in a rush, grabs the baseball bat from where it’s positioned warily in the corner and walks towards the window. He leans on the wall beside the glass pane, gripping the bat tighter as he inches towards the window.

Before he could move any nearer, a small stone flies towards the window, hitting the glass before it falls back down to the ground.

Ian jumps a little and his eyes widen at the window. Then, in a trice, he flips the latch of the window and pushes it open.

A stone misses him by a half inch. 

“Holy shit,” Ian says, placing his palm over his chest in an attempt to calm himself down. He looks outside and scans the area for the source of the stones, but all he sees is the darkness and a few dimly lit lampposts. He squints, as if narrowing his vision would help him see a little clearer. 

When he sees nothing, he scrunches his forehead, thinking his lack of sleep might’ve triggered him to hear things or experience some sort of paranoia. The rock felt pretty real though, and he’s sure he heard it land on the wooden floor behind him. So when he does look back, the rock is indeed lying on the floor.

He looks back out again, scouting the backyard for any form of life or figure lurking in the shadows. He considers just giving up and going back to sleep.

But then, he hears it.

“Ian.”

When Ian’s gaze settles on a spot in the shadows, a figure emerges from it, walking towards the patch of illuminated ground present. 

Ian caught in between being unable to move and falling back and losing consciousness because standing right below his window was Mickey, and Ian couldn’t fucking believe it.

“You gonna let me in or what?” 

***

Ian paces back and forth in his room, the reality of the situation not quite registering yet. 

He figures he’s dreaming because that would be the only logical reason as to why Mickey’s sitting on his bed right now, living and breathing and just plain _existing_. Every once in a while, he’d turn his head to glance at Mickey, making sure that his imagination hasn’t gotten the best of him and has taken over his mind and thoughts completely. His thoughts have been fucking with him lately, so he deems it a possible option. But every time he stares, Mickey stares back, and Ian’s reminded that no, this is not his imagination, there’s a real man lounged on top of his bed that resembles his ex-boyfriend. 

“You believe I’m real now?” Mickey asks. “’Cause I ain’t got all day.”

Ian strides towards the other man, then extends his arms out to lay his fingers on the other man’s face, letting his fingertips brush against the warm skin. The warmth signifies that there’s blood rushing beneath that skin, and it pumps a heart inside him as it goes, and the man that is looking at him as if he’s one big puzzle is in fact alive. “It’s not possible.”

“Me being alive?” Mickey says incredulously. “I went to jail not jump off a fucking cliff.”

“No, no, not that,” Ian corrects, eyes still roaming Mickey’s face. “You being out of jail. It’s not p–” Ian’s too shocked to even form some coherence with his words. “It’s just – how? You had thirteen more years!”

“Ever heard of breaking out?” 

“You fucking broke out of jail?” Ian raises his voice, but he attempts to hush it down a little, not wanting to wake anyone up by his loud reactions.

“Yeah.” Mickey says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like what he just did was no big deal. Meanwhile, Ian’s eyes widened by a ton, his mouth hanging open as he tries to think of how to respond to that kind of news. “Think I scraped my fucking knee when I went through the gate but yeah, I’m out.”

If panic were a person, Ian would be the exact representation of it. He’s got the complete look – wide eyes, open mouth, speechlessness and all. He lacks the hyperventilation bit, but it still fares. “Mick, what were you thinking?”

Mickey burrows his brows and flashes Ian a confused expression. “You don’t look happy.”

“Of course I am!” Ian mutters, still trying to keep his voice down. “But I’m also so panicked right now so you have to deal with that.”

“Calm down,” Mickey urges, but Ian’s worried state isn’t exactly an easy one to crack, so Mickey falls back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t have much time, they do day checks at five AM and if they come into my cell and see that it’s fucking empty, I’ll have the cops on my ass by six.”

“Why did you think this was a good idea?”

“It isn’t,” Mickey repeats. “That’s why the cops’ll be after me. Common sense.”

Ian rubs his face with his hands, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do next. He’s got a fugitive in his room, lying down on his bed like he didn’t just conduct a huge prison escape, and Ian’s breathing patterns are getting fucked up as time passes on. 

“Not that, Mick,” Ian sighs. “I meant breaking out of prison, in what world is that a good thing?”

“That a trick question?” Mickey kids, and Ian wonders how Mickey could manage to be playful at the moment. 

“I was gonna visit you in the morning,” Ian informs the other man, who looks up at him as his statement flies. “Couldn’t you have waited ‘til then? Christ, Mickey.”

Mickey stills after he hears what Ian just said. He takes a minute to take it in, to let his mind fully process Ian’s words, because it sounded foreign to his ears, despite him understanding every single word of it. “I didn’t think you would.”

Ian’s loud breathing comes to a silent halt; going back to it’s normal pace. Ian stands by the window, his hands gripping onto the ledge as he stares at plain nothing. His mind drifts to other thoughts before it’s replaced by a sense of guilt. 

Mickey didn’t think he would bother to visit him in prison, and it strikes Ian’s chest as he thinks of it. The fact that Mickey has gone for so long without feeling Ian’s presence to the point wherein he doubted that Ian would ever return again pulls on a sensitive chord inside Ian, almost as if he hates himself for letting Mickey think that way. And perhaps, maybe he does resent himself for that, because Mickey went through a great deal of pain because of him, and now Mickey’s paying for it alone.

“Of course I would,” Ian says too softly, it comes of like a whisper. “That’s the reason why I came back.”

A hushed silence spreads across the room in an instant, both boys unmoving and rooted to their own respective spots. It’s a lot to take in, well, for Mickey mostly. 

Mickey’s never really been an important figure in anyone’s life, and he’s grown to accept that after constantly being treated like shit and being tossed aside like he was worth nothing. Sure, he messed around with other people’s lives every now and then if they shook Mickey up the wrong way, but he was never exposed to any form of affection or longing. He had his family to thank for that.

All his life he’s been nothing but trouble – a passing misfortune to those who were stupid enough to cross him. In a violent sense or in other aspects of his being, he was never _wanted_. So it’s fair to think that he’s overwhelmed by Ian’s words, which have started to spiral around his head and launch themselves straight towards his chest, hitting Mickey in the places that he thought he could never feel. It’s a whirlwind of emotions – the situation he’s in – because he feels surprised one moment and then extremely elated the next, then it settles down into pure skepticism, and then the cycle repeats itself once more. 

When Ian’s had enough of the unresponsiveness, he repeats himself, but he phrases it differently, as so his sentence bore a much bigger impact than before. “I came back for you, Mick.”

The frost on his window has begun to bore him, but Mickey still hasn’t moved from his place on the bed, at least from what Ian can hear. But when he turns his head to face the older boy, Mickey’s gone straight from his bed to him, crowding him up against the bare wall. 

For the first time in two years, Mickey’s only inches apart from him. Ian can feel Mickey’s warmth on his skin, keeping him warm despite the chilly air outside and the stunning lack of heating in his room. They don’t move for a minute, but they revel in each other’s presence, in their _closeness_ , and Ian doesn’t remember the last time he had chills running through him as quickly as this. 

Their eyes meet and Ian nearly melts. The intensity of their gaze is enough to set Ian aflame and he’s pretty sure that flames will pop up soon to engulf him, but for now that doesn’t matter. He can burn later, because now, well, now is for Mickey.

Their lips touch before they do.

Ian’s eyes shut instantly and his senses are crowded with just one sensation – every part of him, every little bit is going _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_ , and Ian can’t shut it down. He doesn’t think he wants to.

Mickey’s hand goes up to rest against the back of Ian’s neck, while the other hand lies upon Ian’s hip. The contact of Mickey’s hand and Ian’s skin is separated by a thin piece of clothing, but Ian can feel the warmth radiating off Mickey’s skin at the place where their bodies collide. 

Ian lets his hands wander; brushing against the areas he thought he’d never get the privilege of witnessing again. They travel up Mickey’s back and then back down, until his palms have roamed every inch of Mickey’s back.

Blissful, is what it is. 

“You know I don’t have much time, right?” Mickey whispers against Ian’s lips, his words sending vibrations down Ian’s spine every time he tries to whisper something more.

Ian groans in response, too caught up in the kiss to be coherent in his speech. Mickey doesn’t stop though; instead, he gives Ian what he wants, and what he wants as well. “Cops will come looking for me in the morning. Can’t stay here.”

Ian buries his fists into Mickey’s jacket, his fingers effortlessly unbuttoning the thick fabric. “Worry about that later.” Ian presses deeper into the kiss, his nose brushing up against Mickey’s as he tries to get more, he always wants more. “Want you.”

Mickey lays his palms on Ian’s chest, not quite pushing but keeping them there to keep Ian steady. “Want you, too,” Mickey admits, and it’s the solid truth. “Want you so fucking much.”

Mickey’s never wanted anything or anyone as much as he’s wanted Ian. He knew it from day one, from the day that Ian and Mickey shared their first night together, that Ian was _it_ for him, that he didn’t want anyone else aside from the red-haired boy situated in front of him. 

Ian is many things, but he’s everything to Mickey, and he’s not ashamed to admit it to everyone that asks. In fact, he’s ready to shout it from the rooftops, to announce to the entire world that _he fucking loves Ian Gallagher_. 

He used to be afraid – afraid of being judged for his preferences, afraid of being deemed weak by those who didn’t quite understand, and afraid of his father most of all. But he’s not anymore, because Ian makes him so much stronger. The courage that he once lacked was filled in, and that’s because he finally found something worth fighting for, worth standing up against his greatest fears for. Bruises and blood didn’t matter at this point, because he’s got a shit ton of those throughout the entire course of his life, but bravery came in the form of a distorted illusion to him. He thought he was brave, especially when he saw fear in others’ faces whenever he would approach them, and that’s where he was mistaken. 

Bravery, in its purest sense, is Mickey Milkovich when he’s with Ian Gallagher.

“Then take me,” Ian lets out in a breath. “Make me yours again.”

Mickey wants to give into the temptation, and he badly just wants to take Ian to bed and make love to him throughout the night until the sun rises and presents a new day, but he can’t. He knows that in a few hours, the cops will have noticed his absence from his cell and will have notified the entire police force of escape of the fugitive, and the search parties will scape high and low in search of him. He can’t afford to lose any time, not when his life is on the line.

“Ian,” Mickey pulls back to say, but Ian doesn’t hear him. Ian just leans in once more, and allows his lips to brush against Mickey’s, craving the feeling he’s been deprived of for too long. His hands move up to tangle themselves in Mickey’s hair, feeling the dark strands thread through the dips in his fingers. Ian uses this as an opportunity to pull the shorter man closer until their bodies have been pressed up completely.

“Ian,” Mickey says again and this time, Ian hears him. Ian pants lowly, his lips numb from the force of their lips on each other, but he’s never felt so good. Being close to Mickey, feeling the man’s skin on his fingertips, hearing Mickey’s voice bounce off the walls of his small room, is so familiar to Ian, as if the past never happened and Ian was still Mickey’s as much as Mickey was his. He’s never actually felt this elated before, which causes him to grin, which only spreads wider when he sees that Mickey’s got a tinge of a smile creeping onto his lips as well. 

“Yeah,” Ian utters at a loss of breath.

“’M gonna ask you something,” Mickey warns. Ian moves closer, letting their foreheads touch, and their stares meet as they do. 

“Anything.”

“Need you to be honest with me.” Mickey cups Ian’s face in his hands, his thumb slowly caressing the patch of skin by Ian’s jaw. “We clear?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian replies. “Of course.”

Mickey takes a deep breath, but the effect is the complete opposite. He feels the air escape his lungs, making him catch a breath for a second. He’s not exactly acquainted with the feeling of nervousness, but he guesses this is what it feels like. And he doesn’t like it. “Do you love me?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Ian softly laughs, pulling Mickey closer by his grip on his waist. 

“Just answer it,” Mickey urges. “Please.”

“More than anything,” and the truth slips past his lips before his mind could even process what he just blurted out. 

“I love you, too.” They both resume the kiss, a little more rushed this time. Ian manages to get Mickey’s jacket off, and he pushes it down Mickey’s shoulders with little help from the other boy. Once the piece of clothing hits the floor, they both stumble towards the bed, losing their balance at the same time as they fall towards on the mattress. They laugh into each other’s mouths, letting the joy overtake their senses and play at their lips. 

They’re a laughing mess at this point, smiling at everything and anything because they just can’t stop _smiling_. They’ve both grown so unfamiliar to the emotion that having too much of it all at once is a lot to comprehend. Amidst their fits of giggles and silent kisses, they manage to get both their shirts off, which they consider a triumph. 

Mickey’s right in the middle of laying kisses upon Ian’s chest, scattering traces of him on Ian’s bare skin, just like he always used to do, when he says, “Run away with me.”

Ian stops.

His mouth falls open as he looks up at Mickey, his hands still gripping onto Mickey’s arms. “What?”

“Let’s leave, together,” Mickey suggests, offering Ian a small smile to reassure him, but that doesn’t put Ian at ease. “If I don’t get moving, they’ll arrest me again and toss me back into that shithole.”

“I–I don’t understand,” Ian stutters, although he knows it’s a lie. He understands quite well what Mickey’s asking.

“’M on the run, Ian,” Mickey explains. “Can’t stay here. I want you to come with me.”

Ian blinks, sitting up straighter so that his back’s up against his headboard. He moves an inch away from Mickey as he racks his brain for a response. “Fuck, Mick. Where would we go?”

“I’ll take the car from my house, we can drive up to another state,” Mickey proposes, listing options he’s probably had planned since his escape. “We could go to Europe. Go to Italy, Spain, or fucking France, I don’t know. Cousin has a place there were we could crash for a bit, then we’ll figure out what to do from there.”

“You’re unsure?”

Mickey sighs, resting his hand on Ian’s arm. “Didn’t know you were coming back. Had two days tops to plan an escape route outta jail, much less where to go after.”

Ian doesn’t know where this conversation’s going, because he sure as hell doesn’t know what he’s even doing or what he thinks of the situation. “If we get caught?”

“We won’t,” Mickey assures him, letting his fingers graze Ian’s neck in an attempt to calm him down. It seems to work a little, since Ian’s stopped trembling as much. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. You’re gonna have to trust me on this.”

And the thing is, Ian _does_ trust him. Ian would entrust his life to Mickey, and he’d rely on him to keep it safe and untainted. Mickey has been nothing but loyal to him, and he’s proved it on countless occasions. So without a doubt, Ian knows that Mickey would do anything in his power to keep Ian from harm. 

If they were under different circumstances, Ian would have easily taken Mickey’s hand and never looked back.

But that’s not the case, is it?

Taking Mickey’s hand would mean leaving everything else behind – his family, his job, his home, all of it. Leaving with Mickey would result to them travelling the world, hopping from one country to another, in an attempt to escape the police that would be constantly following Mickey’s footsteps. Running away with Mickey would require him to give up everything he’s worked so hard to gain and to start fresh in a completely new land, except this time, he’s got nothing but his clothes and a boyfriend who’s on the run. 

Everything’s at risk, and that’s what causes the chaos inside of him – the conflict that strikes a battle between two sides within him. One side wants him to just fuck it, to leave the country and spend the rest of his life with the person he truly loves, but the other side of him wants to stay, to be selfish, to think about himself and that alone. 

“What about my family?” Ian warily asks. “They’ll miss me, and M-Mandy.” 

“We can come back to visit I’m not such a hot case with the police anymore,” Mickey says, trying to comfort Ian as much as he can. “And Mandy’ll be fine, she’s tough enough.”

“What about me?” Ian questions him with worry evident in his tone. “I have a job and an apartment and–” 

Ian doesn’t say boyfriend, because what does it matter at this point anyway? He’s gone and fucked it all up, so it couldn’t matter less. 

“We can look for a new job for you over there.” Mickey smiles, and it lightens up the mood, but not by a lot. “I’ll get us a place. Won’t let you live on the streets, Ian.”

Ian nods, though he’s not sure what exactly he’s nodding for. 

He seriously considers Mickey’s offer, weighing the pros and cons in his head as he goes. Of course, there’s a ton more cons than there are pros, because in a situation like this, there’s bound to be a limited amount of advantages. The disadvantages include many things, such as: losing his job, being away from his family for an indefinite period of time, living with the constant worry of Mickey being taken away from him if they get caught. But the advantages put up a solid battle with the cons, too, even if there’s really only one advantage that stands out among the shallow excuses.

If he goes, he gets to be with Mickey.

It’ll be Mickey and him for the next couple of years, no one else. He’ll be free, in a sense. He wouldn’t have to wake up each day wondering what could have been if he took Mickey’s hand. Regret would be a stranger to him, and the fear of never being able to correct his mistakes would be something he’d overcome. If he runs away now, he could spend the rest of his life in the arms of the person he truly loves.

It doesn’t matter if they don’t have the grandest of lives, or if they live in a mansion or a fucking shack – because money is nothing in value when compared to love. Ian thinks about it, he thinks about how very few people get to experience the blissful feeling of loving and being loved, and how many toss away the feeling out of spite or fear. 

It should be an easy decision, but for some reason, it just isn’t.

“So,” Mickey hesitantly says after while, after he’s given Ian ample time to think every circumstance over. He didn’t want to pressure Ian, because despite his overpowering instinct to always put himself first, Ian was more important to him. If he could, he’d give Ian all the time he needs – need it be days, weeks, or even months. But he hasn’t got days, or weeks, or months. What he has are seconds, minutes, and an hour if he’s lucky. “Will you?”

Ian’s lips part to mouth out an answer, but before he could get a single sound past his lips, Mickey’s meet his. It’s a deep kiss, one that’s tinged with hope and desperation. Mickey holds Ian closer, pulling his firm chest against his own. Their breathing patterns align for a minute and they revel in each other’s presence for another. Mickey holds him carefully, much more delicately than he has ever held him before. 

At the moment, the older boy looks scared, and he has never seen Mickey display even the slightest sense of fear. He can see it, and for some reason, he can identify the fear on Mickey’s face easily, even if it’s something so unfamiliar to him. They’re so close, and Ian wants nothing more than to capture this moment forever, keep it deep inside the farthest recesses of his memory, save it for when he might lose it someday. 

Ian discovers how truly beautiful Mickey’s eyes are – the richest shade of blue, and how beautiful it would be to gaze into them as they run away into the night, under the dim light of the moon. It would be just them, their intertwined hands, and the clothes on their backs, but somehow, it seems so tempting.

Ian has an answer. He already had his answer planned the moment Mickey popped the question, he just had to make sure he was making the right decision, because regrets were never Ian’s strong point, and he had quite a ton of them. This decision was irreversible, and whatever he chooses would form the foundation for the next part of his life. He couldn’t afford to pick the wrong one. There’s just too much to lose.

And so when Ian answers, looking a painfully terrified Mickey in the eye, he means to say “yes”.

But instead, he fucks up his words and gives the complete opposite, because his heart had been speaking for him for much too long, and his mind couldn’t fathom the tragic loss he would have to endure if he left everything he had. When the “no, I’m sorry, Mick” escapes him, Mickey’s at a loss of words, at a loss of hope, at a loss of _Ian_.

“W-what?”

The tears form at the corners of Mickey’s eyes, threatening to fall with one single blink. Ian watches Mickey’s bottom lip quiver as he tries to control his breathing, But then, Mickey releases a huff of disbelief, because he truly does not understand anything that’s happening at the moment, and why the odds have overcome the possibilities. 

Ian doesn’t answer. He’s afraid that if he does, he might just sink back down into his own toxic thoughts, and maybe this time, he’d drown. 

A tear falls down Mickey’s face for the first time.

Ian wants to hold him, wants to pull him close and wrap him in his arms and tell him that he loves him more than anything in this world. He wants to lie down with Mickey on his old sheets forever and talk about the city, the streets, and the whole entire universe – including the stars that form constellations in Mickey’s eyes. But the universe fucking hates them, for reasons he doesn’t understand; and the universe keeps sending out its best stars to keep them apart.

He wants to do all these things but if he does, he’ll be captivated by Mickey’s touch once more and he’ll drown himself in the illusion of a better life. He loves Mickey, and it fucking hurts him every time he remembers the intensity of his passion for Mickey, but his life is composed of so much more than just the dark-haired boy that accidentally made himself a permanent figure in Ian’s life. He’s got so much more in store for him that lies beyond Mickey’s embrace.

Ian Gallagher is a man of many things, of many abilities, of many dreams; and he’d absolutely regret giving that all away.

“Really?” Mickey softly says, although it’s inaudible at this point, even if they were just a mere three inches away from each other. Ian nods, unable to say anything else. “Fuck.”

Mickey attempts to smile, to cover up the fact that he was displaying weakness in every sense at the moment. But no smile could mask the tears uncontrollably streaming down his face; they were just too visible, too clear. 

He looks so vulnerable, and both boys thought they’d never see the day. 

The thing is, Mickey honestly thought Ian would come with him. Mickey hasn’t loved anyone as much as he loves Ian, and he thought the feelings were reciprocated. He spent the last couple of months in prison, enumerating all the things that he could have done wrong, naming the things he did that fucked up the only good thing he had left in his life. 

Mickey loved Ian with all of him. He loved every bit of him – from the way Ian would pull him to his chest when they’d fall asleep in each other arms, to the way Ian’s genuine laugh sounded. All these were pieces of Ian that Mickey accepted and appreciated to the fullest degree. 

And Mickey understands that he may have not exactly been the best boyfriend, or the best person in general, but that’s because his past has fucked him up enough to lead him to believe that relationships were nothing but fragile structures meant to be torn down and that love was an idea constructed by the hopeless, by the ones that craved affection. But he tried, and he was getting so much better. And if Ian had agreed to leave with him, he would have tried even harder, because losing Ian would be much more painful than losing himself, and that’s saying a lot about him.

Ian made him happy. He made him feel like all the blood he’s had to shed over the course of his life, and all the bruises he’s gotten from emotional and physical beatings in the past, were just remnants of his old self, not indications of his present. Ian made him feel new; like a stronger version of his younger self, like he could endure anything that throws a punch in his face – even life itself. 

He thought that maybe Ian felt the same way. As it turns out, he was wrong. He’s always fucking wrong.

Mickey hastily wipes away at the wet trails on his cheeks, rubbing them off into the sleeve of his shirt, which he pulls back on in an instant. He glances at his watch and sees that he spent more time coaxing Ian into running away with him than he thought he would, and he’s way behind schedule. Soon enough, daylight would break out and the cops down at the prison would be making their daily rounds. And if Mickey didn’t get moving now, he’d have his ass thrown back into prison for so many more years than he was originally sentenced to. 

“I, uh,” Mickey sniffles, pulling on his jacket with much difficulty – the sobs clouding up his ability to think straight or to move properly. Each time Mickey blinks out the tears, Ian feels a sharp pain shoot right out of his chest, like knives to his skin, digging right into his heart. “Gotta go.”

Mickey huffs again, forcing out a smile to pretend as if he isn’t dying inside, to act as if his heart isn’t threatening to fly out of his chest any minute now. “Have to race the cops at finding me, right?” Mickey pulls up the zip of his jacket, securing it tightly around his body. “Not exactly a free man.”

His last sentence could mean so many things, but Ian decides not to delve into it. Instead, he watches Mickey shrug all his clothes back on and compose himself before he runs off into the night. The damp clear streaks on Mickey’s face have faded out now, leaving nothing but sad eyes and a nose too pink to be considered fine.

Ian resists the urge to jump up and kiss the fuck out of Mickey and pull him back under his sheets where he belongs, because that would only compromise the situation, and leave Ian conflicted once more. He’s made up his mind, he thinks, he doesn’t need another opposing soldier to fight in the battle inside of him

Mickey stands by the door, ready to push it open and set off his departure. When he’s got the knob turned and the door slightly ajar, he turns towards Ian one last time.

He cherishes the moment, tries to instill as much images into his memory as he can. He won’t be seeing Ian for a while, maybe for a long time, maybe never again, so he wants to be able to picture Ian in his head in a positive light. When he closes his eyes at night, he wants to remember how beautiful the boy he loved was and how Ian showed him everything he knew about loving and being loved, but he doesn’t want to remember why he lost him. And why he lost him twice. 

“So this is goodbye, huh?” Mickey asks, though he knows he didn’t exactly mean it as a question. It was more like an act of finality; the last confirmation that what was happening was, in fact, real, and that it wasn’t just some vivid nightmare. If he leaves tonight, he leaves for good. It was more than just leaving town; it was leaving Ian’s life completely, and taking all the broken pieces with him.

Ian bunches up his hand into his sheets, desperately trying to contain his trembling. He glances up at Mickey, who’s got his back pressed to the wall and his hand rested on the partially opened window. Mickey waits for an answer because if he leaves empty-handed tonight, he might as well leave knowing he tried.

“Yeah,” Ian just says. “I guess it is.”

Ian keeps his head down the whole time as Mickey walks out of his room. He struggles to breathe, because the air won’t seem to circulate in his lungs, and soon he finds himself all alone with a hand over his chest and a heart too heavy to bear. 

He can’t take this. 

Ian gets off his bed in a trice, running out of his room and down the stairs in record time, his feet taking him to the front door faster than he’s ever gone. He catches Mickey right on the sidewalk, before he’s had the chance to make it to the road. 

“Mick!” Ian calls out, and the other man turns his attention towards the door. He sees Ian on the front steps of his house – panting lowly, hand settled on the frame of the door. Quickly, Ian jogs up to him, his breath still trying to regulate itself.

Mickey doesn’t speak; he just looks up at Ian and waits for what he has to say, because Mickey hasn’t got much to say at this point. He’s afraid that if he dares to open his mouth again; he’ll resort to begging Ian to come with him, and Mickey doesn’t want to do that. Because Mickey wants Ian to have his freedom as much as Mickey wants his own, and he won’t let guilt drive a life changing decision. 

The silence drowns them both out, and Ian’s reminded of the day he broke up with Mickey two years ago. They’re in their exact spots, bearing the exact same burdens as they did before. It strikes Ian, how familiar this scene is before him. But it doesn’t surprise him; because all emotions they felt at their parting in the past were present right here, right now. 

Another similarity Ian finds is that much like before, Mickey’s asking him to stay and Ian’s letting him go.

They don’t speak, and so Ian lets his lips do the talking instead. He leans in for a quick kiss, and it overflows with a fine mixture of love, guilt, and longing. As Mickey responds with just as much fervor, Ian is reminded that this would probably be the last time he’ll get to feel Mickey’s kiss, this is the last time their bodies will ever come into contact this close, and this is the last time he’ll rest his head against the other man’s. 

The kiss doesn’t pull them together. Instead, it does quite the opposite. It tears them apart. 

With each second that passes as they’re breathing each other in, they slip away from each other in the most subtle aspects of their being. It starts with the physical particulars – such as Mickey’s fingertips slowly slipping away from Ian’s skin, or Ian’s lips inching farther and farther until they’re merely brushing. Then, it moves on to the emotional details – and soon, they seem so distant when they’re standing just inches apart.

“Will I ever see you again?” Ian doesn’t even know why he asks, or why it even matters at this point, because Ian’s made his choice. He chose to stay; to make do with the things he has and to further discover the things he deems better. And so, his question catches him off guard as it does Mickey.

“You won’t,” Mickey simply replies. “I’ll be halfway across the world and you’ll be here. I could die – get fucking shot or get my ass thrown in jail again, and you’ll be here. Might never come back, because I don’t know about you, Gallagher, but I’m not really up for getting my heart broken a third time.” Mickey lets out a small laugh, even if his chest is burning up as he speaks.

Mickey turns away, putting a hood over his head to conceal his face as he prepares to walk through the night. He gets as far as about two steps before Ian’s voice halts him again, but this time, for much longer.

“I love you.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know if Ian’s just bare messing with his head at this point. He doesn’t get to say that, not since he ripped apart all Mickey’s hope and love just minutes before. But Mickey takes it in and accepts it. He’ll take whatever shot at affection he has left, especially if the words are coming out of the mouth of the only boy he’s ever loved. 

This will be the last time he’ll ever hear Ian’s voice, much less a sincere proclamation of love. And so Mickey looks back at Ian, for one more time before he leaves. 

“Goodbye, Ian Gallagher,” Mickey says as he smiles. “’S been great.”

And just like that, Mickey runs off into the dimly lit side of town, his figure barely illuminated by the streetlights. When Mickey is completely out of sight, Ian leans against the fence, his head turned towards the direction of where Mickey went and his eyes trained on the darkness that has replaced it. 

Ian smiles; because he feels a million waves of emotion all at once and he doesn’t quite know how to deal with them, so he just laughs it off. His laugh is hollow and he’s pretty sure it doesn’t contain even a single sleeve of humor, but it makes him feel light anyway. 

The streets are empty and quiet; figures, because it’s three in the fucking morning and Ian’s wide awake, standing in the middle of his home and the road. He’s aware that he just let the absolute love of his life go, and that the chances of them ever crossing paths again is close to nonexistent. 

So, Ian treads back to his front door, carrying the weight of his feet up the wooden steps. He faces the darkness one last time, for the good of it, and he sighs with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. _Goodbye, Mickey Milkovich_ , he thinks. _It has indeed been the greatest years of his life._

And then Ian thinks, he hates the silence.

But maybe he could live with it once more.


End file.
